The Moment
by mebfeath
Summary: They ponder just when things might have started.
1. Chapter 1

Peter sat, staring out at the rolling green hills that covered the landscape for as far as the eye could see.

Maybe it was when Leo had first shown up. Maybe that's when he fell in love with Assumpta Fitzgerald. He'd seen the look of excitement on her face, the look of absolute adoration on his. He'd felt something sink in his stomach; the kind of sinking feeling that shouldn't happen to good Catholic Priests. But then, as Father Mac had hinted so many times, he wasn't necessarily a good _Catholic_ priest. He'd barely been able to hide his…what was it? Dismay? Shock? Distress? He wasn't really sure; maybe it was all three. He'd barely been able to hide his emotions, anyway. He hadn't needed to for so long; he was out of practice. Sure, he'd had feelings for women before; Jennie was a prime example. But nothing like Assumpta. He'd fallen, and fallen hard.

Somehow he'd always known she'd be his undoing. Those dark eyes, the way her cheeks flushed when she was angry. The way she'd accepted him for who he was, rather than everyone else who'd automatically accepted him for his collar, and then realised he wasn't such a bad guy.

Maybe it was when Leo arrived; but then, maybe that's just when he had realised just how much trouble he was in.

Maybe it was when she offered him the driving lessons on his birthday. It had been a hard day, and he'd been distinctly disappointed when everyone had said they were busy that evening. He'd decided to go to the bar anyway; at least he could have a drink on his birthday, albeit alone. Surprised was definitely the emotion he'd felt when he'd arrived to find streamers and the cheering faces of his friends waiting for him. His eyes had gone straight to hers, somehow knowing it had been her that had organised it. She'd smiled straight back at him.

He definitely knew at that point.

Or maybe it really was that final lesson in the mud, when she'd admitted that the only reason she'd offered was because she didn't want to see him dead in a ditch. She'd been so angry – he'd been furious, and frustrated. He'd still been coming to terms with her anger; the way she would fly into a rage, and he'd be left there, sidewiped by her fury. It had taken a while, but he'd eventually worked it out. Well, mostly. She'd be angry with him, for something he'd done or said. Or, she could be angry with the church – he had to tread carefully there. He knew when that happened, he was being judged, and her words had stung more than once. Or she was angry at something else entirely, and he usually happened to be the closest person. In more ways than one, by the end.

Maybe it was when he realised she stopped seeing him as the church and more as Peter. Somewhere, when he realised she'd stopped calling him Father. He wasn't sure quite when that had happened. When he'd realised – it had been very late one night, or early one morning, when he couldn't push her out of his mind – he'd spent far too long than was healthy trying to remember the last time she'd called him Father.

Maybe it was when Niamh and Ambrose finally got back together after the incident with the falling Saint. That night, when he'd looked across the room and met her eyes; eyes that gleamed with admiration and gratitude. He'd realised she had been right; being 'economical with the truth' had been the right option. But then, she was rarely wrong about those kinds of things, especially when it came to Niamh.

It might have been when Jennie had come. He'd realised he didn't really love Jennie; not anywhere near enough to give up the priesthood. He'd been young, and stupid, and he'd told her as much. Feelings come and feelings go, and as a priest, he had to be aware of these kinds of feelings.

His feelings for Assumpta…well, they'd crept on so slowly but so fiercely that he didn't stand a chance. By the time he had realised he was in love, it was far too late. It had only been a matter of time, really. He'd fooled himself, telling himself that if he could only get away for a while, reconnect with God, then maybe he'd be ok. Maybe he could forget her, with God's help.

But clearly God had had other plans.

Maybe it was when he'd first met her. That first meeting, when she'd picked up the half-drowned young curate on the side of the road. Neither of them had missed the irony of that encounter; her, the very Irish, staunch anti-Catholic publican, and he the new English priest. He didn't believe in love at first sight, but he knew it hadn't taken long. He'd always thought she was beautiful, from the moment he saw her. He had always known it wasn't long after that; sometime in those first few months.

Jennie had been right. There had been another. He didn't think she'd really meant it; she'd said it out of hurt more than anything else, but she'd been right. Maybe she'd suspected Assumpta all along…

Assumpta had once said that when two people were meant to be together, no force on the planet was going to keep them apart.

She'd been right, as usual.

Maybe there was no 'moment'. Maybe it had been so gradual - or so quick - that it was impossible to pinpoint a moment when he could decisively say that he'd fallen in love with Assumpta Fitzgerald.

All he knew was that he loved her with everything he had; more than he'd ever loved anything. That was the only thing he'd known for certain for a long time.

He looked out across the room, his eyes searching for her. She'd barely left his side all night, until Niamh had dragged her away to the bathroom. She'd been gone nearly ten minutes. Yup, he was counting.

She suddenly emerged from behind a large wooden door, her eyes instantly meeting his. He raised his eyebrows in amusement; she had blushed slightly when she'd seen him, lowering her eyes. He wondered briefly what had been discussed in the bathroom, but gave up quickly. It was not for him to wonder what occurred in women's bathrooms. He watched as she made her way over to him, smiling self-consciously. She was wearing a red dress that revealed her knees, he noticed – not something Assumpta Fitzgerald did every day. The dress hugged her slim figure closely; the square neck showing just enough of her collarbone and neck. Peter decided that he liked that dress. A lot.

He stood as she reached him, turning his face away from the many people who milled around the room. He made a show of running his eyes up and down her body, from her feet to her head, stopping at her eyes. She blushed fiercely, and he grinned. He took a step closer to her, so he was barely inches away from her.

'Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?' he whispered in her ear. He heard her draw in a slight breath.

'You may have, once or twice,' she said quietly, unable to conceal her satisfaction – and delight – at his words. He leant back, running his fingers down her arms.

'Are you ready?' he asked quietly. She looked up at him, her face mirroring his nervous expression. She nodded, giving him a small smile, one he returned. He turned to see Brendan and Niamh watching them. He nodded to Brendan, who grinned and stood up, yelling over the crowd. Peter turned back to Assumpta, ignoring the minor chaos that had erupted behind him.

'Well, Mrs Clifford, I think it's time we made our exit,' he said, his voice smug. She shook her head and grinned wryly at him.

'Mrs Clifford,' she said slowly. 'That's going to take some getting used to.'

'Well, you'll have a long time to get used to it,' he replied, the air of smugness not leaving him. She smiled at him, unable to hide her happiness.

'I look forward to it,' she said quietly. He smiled back at her before turning and taking her hand.

* * *

_Just something little that popped into my head a little while ago. I hope you enjoy. Chapter 2 is coming!_


	2. Chapter 2

Assumpta Fitzgerald had known she was in trouble early on. Very early on. It had only been a few short months in when she'd realised just how deeply in love with the new curate she was.

And it had unnerved her. Quite severely.

She must have appeared bipolar to him; her mood swings had been of epic proportions. She'd float between happily chatting to him outside Fitzgerald's of a morning, telling herself that she just enjoyed the company of someone closer to her age and intellect – someone who presented more of a challenge – to tearing into him over the smallest things, realising there was no way she was getting out of this one alive.

She'd blamed him, of course; his youthful face that belied his wisdom and maturity, his ready smile – especially for her, she'd eventually realised – his love for her town and its occupants. The way he would bend over backwards to help anyone. That smile; the one that made her feel weak at the knees, despite the stern talking to she would give herself every time. Those green eyes that made her feel like he could see into her soul; eyes whose intense gaze she had met and dropped so many times. His boyish good-looks. The way he stopped to help her at night when he knew she was exhausted. The way he was always around, always on her side, or at least always the one on the other side of the argument, balancing her out. The only one who could make her smile, even when she was furious or miserable. The one who had practically carried her into her own kitchen before Ambrose had arrested her, risking - and copping - her legendary wrath.

But she'd known it was all her own doing. She knew she was the first; at least, the first to realise. He'd surprised her from day one – he wasn't like the other priests that had come and gone, offering their holy presence and lengthy, irrelevant and definitely unwanted sermons. He'd been different. He'd actually cared - genuinely cared about what happened in Ballykissangel. He'd put his money where his mouth was, and the young English curate had won over the very Irish town in less than three months. She hadn't had to work hard to get those signatures; he'd already earned each and every one of them.

Maybe that's when…maybe it had been when he'd told her he had to leave, that he was ordered back to Manchester. His words had been like a blow to the chest. She'd once asked him if he'd come to Ballyk, even knowing he wasn't wanted – it had been his first night, when one of the mountainy men had died, and he'd begged her to drive him up there. He hadn't replied. Ten weeks' later she had asked him where he wanted to be – in Ballyk, or in Manchester – and he'd thrown her words right back at her. _Where I'm wanted_, he'd said rather pointedly, his voice slightly elevated.

She'd known then. Definitely.

The petition had been the obvious answer; she knew the Bishop was ok, as far as Catholic Bishops went, and the petition would at least raise a few eyebrows. Hopefully raise enough that Peter would stay, despite Father Mac's best efforts. She had to admit, that had been a definite bonus.

She hadn't realised how much her petition would mean to him; she'd been a little surprised when he'd teared up. But not displeased...definitely not displeased. The petition was her way of showing him how much he was wanted, and not just by the town.

Maybe he'd known then, too. When he'd asked her whether or not she wanted him to stay…it was such a small thing to pick up on, her use of the word 'they' instead of 'we'. She hadn't expected that. It was the first time he'd really challenged her on 'them', even just at a friendship level. The first time he'd really asked her what she actually thought of him.

She'd been sideswiped, really; she hadn't been able to do anything other than stare at him, her heart written all over her face. He'd looked…stunned. He hadn't said anything, and she'd eventually found the presence of mind to tear her eyes away from his. She'd all but fled at that point.

Yes, definitely before then.

He had been fairly oblivious, she assumed, or at least in denial for a long time. The first time they shared one of those looks across the bar her heart had nearly stopped. He'd dropped his eyes first, clearly furious with himself for revealing so much in split second – for being so vulnerable when he knew his position.

She'd felt guilty for a long time. Guilty that she loved him so intensely. Even guiltier when she realised he might just feel something too. He was a Catholic priest, as he'd reminded her on several occasions, and whilst she didn't respect the church, she respected him. She respected his choice to be a priest. Hell, she loved him for it – for all the good he did in that role.

She'd even gone so far as to tell him it was ok; that he didn't need to change anything, and that she'd be happy with him just the way he was. It was the easy road, but one filled with danger, and one that offered only very short-term rewards. And, eventually, a lot of pain and heartache. Not one he'd be willing to take, she knew, but it was the only way she could think of to show him how she really felt. He'd gotten the message that time, too.

To be fair, he had kept coming back. He hadn't run away. Day after day, night after night. Not pulling back, not letting go. Not until she'd demanded a decision from him; something, anything.

And he'd pushed her away.

She would never forget his words as long as she lived; they'd burnt a hole in her mind and soul. The pain in his voice, she'd much later realised – too late – had been incredible. She'd never heard him speak like that.

And then she'd run off and betrayed him in the single biggest way she knew how; she'd married another man. Another moment singed into her memory forever, filed under one of the worst days of her life. She'd been racking them up quickly back then. The hurt on his face had taken her breath away; it was in that very moment she had realised just how colossal a mistake she had made. That there was no way on earth that Leo was ever going to drive him from her mind as she'd so foolishly – and desperately – hoped.

She didn't believe in love at first sight, but love had come swiftly and unrelentingly, and had taken her over so quickly she was left helpless, and hopeless.

And to be honest, she hadn't fought it all that hard. Not at first, anyway.

Her first reaction to him had been like most, although she doubted anyone was quite so…acerbic? Caustic? Brutal? She'd laid into him before he'd even arrived in the town. He'd done nothing to deserve her bitter jibes, except wear that collar – and he hadn't even been wearing it then. She'd thought about him a bit, early on; she wondered just how quickly this very young-looking English priest would turn and run. But, to his credit, he'd survived her – and the town – and had stayed.

It wasn't until later, when she'd developed such a deep respect for him that she tried fighting it. For his sake, more than hers – she couldn't destroy him, and loving her was going to destroy him. She'd tried pushing him away, forcing herself to watch the pain on his face as she spat another insult at him – even drawing the eyes of others with her sheer disrespect – as she shut him out of her mind and her life. But it had failed so spectacularly, and only because of him. She reasoned he must have figured her out, figured out why she was pushing him so wholly away, and had chased her. She'd run, but they always ended up together. He was always there, staring into her soul with his perceptive green eyes. Wearing away at her, until things had come to a head…

Niamh hadn't known how right she was when she said that Assumpta only wanted what she couldn't have. Because the only thing she had wanted with such a fierce, burning passion, was the only thing she couldn't have; could never have.

Or so she'd thought.

She'd never really known how deeply he'd fallen; she'd always suspected early on that he was victim of her love. That he only considered her because she so obviously loved him.

The lure of the forbidden.

How wrong she'd been. And what a way to realise it; sitting on the counter of her best friend's house, his lips slowly working their way up her neck to her jawline…when she'd panicked. That day at the lake, when he'd poured his heart out to her. She'd been left with no doubt as to his feelings; feelings he'd obviously spent a long time fighting.

Feelings they'd both finally caved in to.

She sighed as she sat in the leather seat, a small smiling playing across her face, as she thought of him.

'Assumpta?' Niamh's voice asked, pulling her out of her reverie.

'What? Yeah, sorry.' She looked up.

They'd arrived.

She got out of the car, and stood awkwardly in front of her best friend, trying to hide the nerves that were threatening to overwhelm her. Niamh gave her a giant smile.

'You look incredible,' she said, her voice oozing with pride. 'I can't wait to see his face,' she added. Assumpta blushed. As much as she was dying to do this, she was also desperate to get it over with as quickly as possible. She wasn't this person; she hadn't wanted a huge deal made. If she'd had her way, things would have been over weeks ago. But she hadn't. Secretly, she was kinda glad; this meant more memories. No matter how painful it promised to be initially.

Brendan suddenly appeared at her side, a big smile on his face. 'You look incredible,' he said, and Assumpta blushed for what felt like the millionth time that day. She suspected it wouldn't be the last time, either.

'Thanks.'

Her heart stopped as she heard the soft notes of violins coming from around the corner. Sensing her nerves, Brendan reached over and squeezed her hand. She smiled briefly.

'Ready?'

'I suppose,' she said, unable to keep the terror out of her voice.

'Just smile,' he said, taking a step forward, pulling her with him. As they rounded the corner, she looked up briefly, instantly meeting his eyes. She watched his face breaking into a smile, and his eyes glisten with tears. The green of the grass under her feet almost matched the green of his eyes, she thought suddenly. And then she couldn't look at him anymore; she put her head down and concentrated on her short, but terrifying, journey.

She didn't know how, but she eventually made it up the aisle and to his side. She looked up when she reached him; his eyes were still glistening with unshed tears, and he still wore a small smile.

'You look so beautiful,' he whispered, taking her hands. She blushed again, unable to sustain the intensity of his gaze. She felt tears threaten to prick the back of her eyes, and she took a deep breath, trying to get control of herself.

This was her wedding day, and she was marrying Peter Clifford.

This one was being filed under one of the best days of her life.

* * *

_I apologise for not posting in the last few days - a surprise holiday with the husband. :)_

_This may or may not be the last chapter - I have a couple of ideas - so I won't label it complete just yet. I hope you like!_


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